by Holly Miller
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR
What Might Have Been
“Is there a life you should have lived but never got the chance to? But would getting to live it be the right choice with the right outcome? Miller’s moving, love-infused new novel probes the two separate realities of one spectacular woman: a life with the man who was her past, and a life with a man who could be her future. About the stories we struggle to write and the stories we yearn to live—and a total addictive knockout.”
—Caroline Leavitt, New York Times-bestselling author of Pictures of You and With or Without You
PRAISE FOR
The Sight of You
“Some books rip you apart, even as you are marveling at how beautifully put together they are—The Sight of You is one of these. Holly Miller—with her startling metaphors and finely etched portrait of a star-crossed relationship—has created a novel that is unique and breathtaking and painful and broken and perfect . . . just like love. I’m still crying, yet all I want to do is settle down and read it again.”
—Jodi Picoult, author of Small Great Things
“This gorgeous, unusual love story manages to be both heartbreaking and hopeful.”
—Good Housekeeping
“This book had me in tears. I can’t stop thinking about Callie and Joel and what my choices would be in their circumstances. Beautiful and heartbreaking.”
—Jill Santopolo, New York Times-bestselling author of The Light We Lost
“I’ve just finished it and I’m in BITS. There are literally tears still dripping from my chin. What an extraordinary book. It’s exquisitely written, incredibly moving, and impossible to put down. It made me want to go and give everyone I love a very, very big hug. Who could fail to fall in love with Callie and Joel?”
—Beth O’Leary, author of The Flatshare
“Heartbreaker.”
—Cosmopolitan
“Miller debuts with a stunning and gracefully written tearjerker about destiny, dreams, and selfless love. . . . [She] paints big emotions with nuance and subtlety, exploring complex family dynamics, grief, and anxiety with expert skill that lends realism to her tale, despite its supernatural conceit. This beautifully rendered work is both heartbreaking and life-affirming. Readers should be prepared to cry.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Fans of The Light We Lost and The Time Traveler’s Wife will fall hard for this heartbreaking but ultimately life-affirming novel.”
—Booklist
“I loved The Sight of You. It’s an epic love story, but with such a mesmerising premise.”
—Clare Pooley, author of The Authenticity Project
“With stunningly evocative prose, Holly Miller crafts an enthralling tale that picks up speed as it churns toward its inevitable conclusion. I’m not usually an emotional reader, but this book proved me wrong. The ending is simply perfect. Readers are going to love it.”
—Tracey Garvis Graves, New York Times-bestselling author of The Girl He Used to Know
“The perfect book to kick off your summer reading, The Sight of You by Holly Miller, is full of love and heartbreak, and will have you thinking about your relationships and what you would do if you were to know how they would end.”
—Booktrib
“A wonderful high-concept love story. I adored it.”
—Richard Roper, author of Something to Live For
ALSO BY HOLLY MILLER
The Sight of You
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2022 by Amderley Books Ltd
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Miller, Holly, author.
Title: What might have been / Holly Miller.
Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2022.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021048179 | ISBN 9780593085615 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593085639 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PR6113.I558 W48 2022 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021048179
Title page art: Swirls © deomis/Shutterstock.com
Cover design and art: Vi-An Nguyen
Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_138931607_c0_r0
CONTENTS
Cover
Advance Praise for What Might Have Been
Praise for The Sight of You
Also by Holly Miller
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
One
“You did what?”
I pause next to the pub’s chalkboard craft beer menu, phone pressed to my ear. “I quit,” I repeat. “Just now. I mean, ten minutes ago.”
“You handed in your notice?”
“More like . . . stormed out.”
My sister yogic-breathes for a couple of seconds. “Wow. Okay . . .”
“I couldn’t take it anymore, Tash. It was one time too many.”
I picture her nodding, trying her best to understand.
“Something will turn up,” I say, with a confidence I definitely don’t feel.
“Let me guess: the universe has got your back?”
I manage a smile, but it wobbles a bit. “Here’s hoping.”
* * *
—
The bus back to Tash’s isn’t due for an hour, so I’ve taken cover in The Smugglers with a Virgin Mary. I stay sitting at the bar after my drink comes. The Smugglers is something of a Shoreley institution: it’s the first place I ever got served, heard live music, met boys who weren’t school friends.
I’m starting to feel conscious of just staring into space, so I tap absent-mindedly into the horoscope app on my phone. Checking my horoscope has become my latest guilty pleasure, like watching trashy TV, or eating crumpets in bed. The kind of thing you’d never admit to in front of someone you fancied. But it is slightly addictive. A bit like playing the lottery. Maybe this time . . .
I read today’s prediction, and my heart does a little tap dance through my chest.
Today will see you head off on a new career path. If you’re single, this could also b
e the day you bump into your soulmate.
And then, as if in slow motion, it happens. As I’m lifting a hand to catch the barman’s attention for another, the person next to me gets up, letting someone new slide in. “Pint of Guinness please, mate.”
The barman hesitates, then glances at me. My new companion turns, and our eyes meet.
“Ah, sorry.” He smiles broadly, the friendliest apology ever. “Didn’t see you there.”
It’s the oddest thing: I feel as though I know him. That we have met before. But I can’t place my finger on when, or how.
He’s the type of good-looking favored by knitwear adverts—all dark stubble and ruffled hair and dewy eyes. His expression as he looks at me—amused and intense all at once—combined with the sweet haze of his aftershave, makes me draw breath.
“Hi. No. You go,” I say.
“What are you having?”
“Oh, you really don’t need to—”
“No, I insist.”
“Well. A Virgin Mary, then. Thank you.”
To his credit and my relief, he doesn’t attempt to tack a vodka shot onto my order, or crack a lame joke about pubs traditionally being for boozing in.
When the drinks arrive, he glances around the room, then shrugs and stays where he is on the stool next to me. “Do you mind? It’s packed tonight.” He raises his glass to mine. “I’m Caleb, by the way.”
I don’t recognize the name.
“Lucy.” I smooth back my beachy mess of hair, wishing I’d at least thought to glance into a mirror before storming out of the office earlier. It’s super-stuffy in here, swarming with bodies between the thick walls and low ceiling, and I suspect it’s only a matter of time before I start wilting in the warmth.
I imagine Tash face-palming at this, despairing at my unkempt mane, my crumpled dress. I’ve always thought of my sister as the slightly more polished version of me: she has three extra inches on my average height, hair a shade or two blonder, skin with a few more lumens’ worth of gleam. Still, Caleb seems relaxed, like he probably doesn’t care too much about smooth hair, or lumens, which is just as well.
“I remember when this was a proper spit-and-sawdust place,” he’s saying, sipping from his pint, his gaze alighting on the dazzling wall of gin bottles behind the bar. “Now it’s all craft ales and signature cocktails and wood-fired pizzas.”
“And perfectly staged Instagram posts.”
“And ridiculous bar snacks.” He slides a bowl across the bar toward me. “Wasabi pea?”
I laugh and shake my head, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest. “I’m more of a Scampi Fries kind of girl.”
Smiling, he raises a fist and we bump knuckles, his hand dwarfing mine.
“So, you’re local?” I ask, wondering if I might be able to find out whether we know each other, somehow.
He nods. “You?”
I nod back.
“This your Friday-night haunt?”
“Not exactly.” I hesitate, but then the words start spilling into the space between us. “I actually . . . just quit my job.”
His eyes widen. “Wow. Okay. So you’re in here . . . drowning your sorrows?”
“No. I mean, it was a good thing, quitting. A point of principle.”
“Well, then, congratulations.” He lifts his glass, and then—for just a millisecond—we are looking right into each other’s eyes. I feel my breath flex in my chest, a spread of warmth across my skin. “Good for you.”
“Thank you,” I manage, and then—possibly to distract either him or me from my fluster, which must surely be visible—I say, “So, how about you—are you gainfully employed?”
He nods. “I’m a photographer.”
“Really? For a living?”
He laughs. “Believe it or not, we do exist.”
“Sorry,” I say, mortified. “I just meant . . . there are a lot of people who dream of doing that, so . . . I’m impressed.”
He smiles and nods a thank-you. “Well, you’re free now . . . so what do you dream of doing?”
I hesitate. I could tell him—I’ve always really wanted to write a novel—but that would turn me into the kind of person people try to escape at parties. “Actually, I’m not sure yet.”
“What did you do before you quit?” He’s swiveled round on his stool to face me now, his eyes attentive and bright.
“I worked for an ad agency.”
He sips from his pint, eyebrows elevated. “We have those in Shoreley?”
I laugh. “Just the one, actually. We liked to think of ourselves as small but mighty.”
“And you quit because . . . ?”
I hesitate, and just as I’m thinking of the best way to explain it, I freeze.
No. It can’t be.
I blink rapidly, trying to make out if what I’m seeing is real.
Because, from out of nowhere, on the section of street visible from where I’m sitting, I spot the last person on earth I’d have expected to see.
Halfway across the window, he’s paused to look at something on his phone. As I watch on in shock, I feel my heart start to beat a little faster.
It’s definitely him.
Max. Max Gardner.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, pushing back my stool with a scrape, so hard it almost falls over. I abandon Caleb and my drink, elbowing my way through the crowd and finally out onto the street. The coldness of the air after the warmth of the pub draws a gasp from my mouth that feels like my heart leaping to my throat.
“Max” is all I say.
He looks up, and I take him in—black woolen coat, pinstriped suit, same gleam to his gaze, same sharp jawline, no trace of aging on his handsome face. Tall, fair, gravitas just standing still. Briefly, he is motionless. The moment has cast its spell.
I rummage in my stomach for my voice. “Hi.”
He smiles gently, steps toward me. “Oh my God. It’s really you. Hi.”
Two
We air-kiss, which is ridiculous, because Max and I used to laugh at people who did that, and then stand back to take each other in. For the second time tonight, I curse the fact I’m looking decidedly less than sharp, that particular kind of frazzled you become when you’ve had way too much on your mind.
Max and I aren’t connected on social media, and like any good lawyer, he keeps his Facebook and Instagram private. I’ve never been able to bring myself to friend or follow him, but I do check his LinkedIn from time to time. It never changes: Real Estate Litigation Lawyer at Heyford West White, or HWW if you’re into acronyms, an American law firm with its UK offices in the City.
His profile picture—professionally shot and classic Max—matches up pretty well to the man standing in front of me. Killer jawline, sandy hair, devilish gaze. The kind of expression that confirms he’ll take your case seriously, but with a glint that hints he’ll be celebrating hard when he wins.
The person you were meant to be with, my heart whispers without permission. The one that got away.
“What . . .” I say eventually, because one of us has got to start speaking. “What are you doing here?”
“Work. Well, sort of.” He rubs his jaw, looks uncharacteristically sheepish. “I had a meeting just off the M2, then I thought . . . might as well carry on, take a trip down memory lane.”
Memory lane. You were thinking about me.
“I was actually debating trying to get in touch with you, but . . .” He trails off. “Wasn’t sure if you lived here anymore, or if you’d even want to see me, or . . .”
“No, it’s . . . Of course I’d want to see you.” I smile, emotions quick-stepping around inside me. “What was the work thing? Anything fun?”
He laughs. “Not even slightly. Just a site visit. High-rise office development. Allegedly stealing light from neighboring buildings. All very dull.”
> I smile at the allegedly. “You achieved your dream, then. To be a lawyer.”
As he smiles and nods, I catch a glimmer of pride in his eyes, which is more than merited. I feel oddly gratified by the sight of lawyer Max, in his smooth white shirt and charcoal-gray tie, thriving and smart, everything he ever wanted to be.
We catch up for a few minutes, about his life in London, and the strange turn my professional life has taken today, before it starts to feel a bit ridiculous that we’re having this conversation standing out on the pavement, a Friday-night tide of people forced to part around us.
I clear my throat. “Listen, do you fancy getting a drink, or . . . ?”
“Actually,” he says, checking his watch and grimacing gently, “I have to get back to London. I’ve got a flight at stupid o’clock tomorrow, and I’ve not even packed. This was all a bit . . . spur-of-the-moment.”
The thrill in my chest subsides. Maybe his old urge to escape me still lingers. But I make myself smile. “Lucky you. Anywhere nice?”
“Seychelles. Two weeks.”
“By yourself?” It’s out of my mouth before I can help it.
He shakes his head. “Diving. It’s a group thing.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say, privately relieved—though of course it’s not my right to be—that it’s not a romantic getaway for two. “Well, maybe when you get back we can—”
“Definitely,” he says, looking right into my eyes, making my stomach twitch with pleasure. “We’ve got nearly ten years to catch up on.”
For a moment our gazes clamp together, and I find it hard to look away.
“This is kind of crazy,” I say, eventually. “How many people are there in Shoreley on any given day?”
“Hundreds? Thousands?” he says, smiling. He must be thinking what I am—how could he not? “And yet . . . here we are.”
We swap numbers, and then I watch him walk off along the cobblestones, a squall of thoughts inside my head. Could it be possible that my stupid app was right—have I just bumped into my soulmate? I’ve so often thought that, for me, Max was simply the right guy at the wrong time.
